


In Sending, Truth

by corngold



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Multi, Recognition and Soulnames, Short Vignettes, Soulmates, This fic stumbles drunkenly through series 1-2, semi-fusion with Elfquest (Pini)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 13:30:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11314395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corngold/pseuds/corngold
Summary: So far not even a hint of Recognition has threatened to surface in any of his relationships, for which Michael is grateful.  It’s not a universal constant, after all.  Plenty of people go their whole lives without experiencing it.





	In Sending, Truth

**Author's Note:**

> An idea I had, (when my roommate was super into soulmates AUs), which never really went anywhere. These are just the tiny bits I wrote. Not betaed.
> 
> This soulmate system is based on that of the Elfquest series, by Richard and Wendy Pini, though probably knowledge of that lore isn't required here.

  Brothers

Michael’s always known his brother’s soul name.When he’s a child, it is just another facet of how Lincoln exists for him—a warmth in his chest, a presence at his side, his soul name a steadying fact. 

When he is slightly older, he wonders why he doesn’t know anyone else’s.His neighbours, his classmates, his teachers: they all hold given names up to the world like shields.He wonders who they ought to be, before realising he doesn’t need to know—doesn’t _need_ to.There’s only one person in the world he trusts, he loves, and that’s his older brother, standing like a beacon and a guardian over him, keeping him safe. 

He goes home at the end of school one day and curls up to Lincoln on the couch, afraid his brother may not know who he is, may not care the way Michael cares.

_::Sol::_ he sends, and Lincoln is surprised, turns toward him and wraps an arm over his shoulders, pulling him close.

_::What is it?::_ he sends back, and though the TV’s on, Michael hears every word ring clear through his mind.

_::I—do you know mine?Because—because I never told you and I was afraid you didn’t.::_

His question is a muddled rush of words and feelings, and Lincoln pulls him closer and presses a kiss into his hair.

_::Of course I do::_ he replies, and Michael feels a tight knot in his chest loosen.If Lincoln knows what he means, then he _knows.::You’re my brother.You’re everything in the world.::_

 

~*~

 

_You’re my brother_.It is such an easy answer, and it is a solid truth, like the truth of Lincoln’s name in Michael’s heart.Sending cannot lie.

A few years later he learns about Recognition and life-mates and love-mates.To twelve year old Michael, Recognition sounds strange and unsavoury, and love seems more amenable.He doesn’t want anyone trying to take Lincoln’s place in Michael’s life.He doesn’t want anyone else to know Lincoln’s soul name.He doesn’t want anyone else to know his.

 

 

Veronica

 

So far not even a hint of Recognition has threatened to surface in any of his relationships, for which Michael is grateful.It’s not a universal constant, after all.Plenty of people go their whole lives without experiencing it.

Michael’s had his share of love mates.A few of them have asked if he’d like to exchange soul names.He’s always refused, and they’ve each left him.

He knows Lincoln and Veronica never Recognised, but he knows they exchanged names.There’s a steadiness between them, even when they fight, even when they’re civil.Even when Lincoln asks Michael to help pack up a few of her things still lying around his apartment, and Veronica comes to pick them up.

The three of them stand there, and the air is heavy with knowing.

When Lincoln is in prison for murder, and she and Michael meet, their love for him seems to pull them toward each other, and Lincoln's soul name crackles like electric static between them, unspoken.Michael’s wondered, a few times, who she is.He thinks she would probably tell him, if he asked, but he doesn’t.He’ll never ask for something he’s not willing to give.

 

 

Inmates

 

When their eyes meet for the first time as fellow inmates, Lincoln looks gutted.

_::Tal::_

It’s a closed send, and one of the guards tells him off, with a cuff to his head.Michael stares back, willing him to read his plan in the nothingness of his expression.

_I will get you out of here_ , he thinks, though he doesn’t dare send it. _I am here for you.For_ you.

He’s led away, with Lincoln’s joy and horror and fear and disappointment still ringing through him.

 

 

Connection

 

When he was fifteen, he’d asked Lincoln how it was possible for them to know, since they’re not Recognised.

“Don’t be stupid, we are,” Lincoln had answered, and Michael had choked on his beer.

“Ew, man, Jesus,” he’d said, once he’d coughed air back into his lungs.

Lincoln had quit wiping the crud off the car engine for a moment and looked up at him. 

“Are you shitting me, Mike?Recognition isn’t for sex, it’s the soul, man.”

Soul is not a word Michael ever uses without heavy air quotes around it, and it’s not a word that Lincoln uses at all, but he’s being serious.So Michael shuts up and thinks about it, instead of just walking out of the garage.

“Or at least not always for sex,” Lincoln amends.

“Every chick-flick rom-com out there is about Recognition,” Michael points out.“It’s supposed to be Romance incarnate.”

“Well, if it’s romance you’re looking for, then yeah.Instant love.”Lincoln goes back to the engine.Michael goes back to his beer.“But there are different kinds of love.Recognition is connection, simple as that.”

 

 

Sara

 

By the time Michael arrives at Fox River, he’s developed a fairly mellow view on interpersonal relationships.He likes people, and he likes helping them, but he holds them all at bay.He values his autonomy.And here, especially, emotional distance is key.His plan is get in, break out, and keep his head down while he’s at it.

Then he meets Sara Tancredi, and the world stops—and then drops, spiraling away _._

The sun slants across her face and her hazel eyes glow like bright moss, and he falls into them and falls and falls and can’t catch himself.Her lips part slightly as she stares back, her expression astonished, and he needs absolutely nothing like he needs her.Her soul, _Fehr,_ thrums through his blood with the beats of his heart.

“Oh my…god…” she says, faintly.He reaches out to her—

—and the chains around his wrists clank.The world slams back up around them.The guard is staring back and forth between them, eyebrows furrowed.Michael forces his hand back down and his throat to swallow.

“You must be the doctor,” he says, and he’d planned it to be light and charming and instead it sounds like agony.

 

 

Premonition

 

Michael wonders afterwards—after Lincoln gives in and drops his son back into the elevator, after the mad dash to the car, after Lincoln drives them out of the city like the hounds of hell are on their heels—whether the bad feeling he’d had might have been some kind of premonition.He sits in the passenger seat, two fingers hooked around the safety handle above the door, and leans his head back and fights the horrible pull to go back.There’s a sick feeling growing in his stomach.

He knows it wasn’t premonition.There’s no such thing.It was just phenomenally bad luck.

He’d done his best to throw a plan together, because Lincoln was going to go after his son, with or without him.He hadn’t had time to prepare, to plan against possible obstacles.He hadn’t known what to expect. 

He hadn’t expected the Fed.

:: _Michael?_ ::Lincoln’s mind-voice is worried.Michael keeps his eyes shut, doesn’t answer.The sick feeling is rising up through his bowels and around his spine, tugging at him. 

He remembers the way the Fed’s eyes had locked with his, the way his head snapped to the side, almost snake-like, how incredibly _blue_ his eyes had been.So very blue.His soul-name twining around Michael like vines, or tentacles.Or chains.

The sick feeling reaches Michael’s throat and he recognises it as panic. 

:: _Stop the car._ :: he sends, and only just manages to stumble out the door and to his knees before he’s throwing up everything in his stomach onto the side of the road.

:: _Michael!What the hell?_ ::

He can feel Lincoln’s worry, but faintly.He tries to find his tie to Sara, to hold it like a lifeline.Then Lincoln’s hands wrap around his shoulders, and Michael draws in a shuddering breath.

:: _Tal.::_ Lincoln’s presence is stone and dark earth in his mind, cool and steadying.

“I’m fine.I’m fine.”

“You’re full of shit.What’s wrong?”

He’s not fine, but he’s better.Lincoln’s always been his shield.

Together they get him back into the passenger seat, and Lincoln starts up the car again.Michael knows he’s not pleased to be kept in the dark, but Michael can’t share this.He’s fought Recognition once before, he can do it again. 

He needs to learn the Fed’s name, his given name.Needs some way to block out his soul.

_Tyrr,_ he thinks, against his will.

 

 

Crash, Burn

 

For a long moment there’s nothing but fire, and then:

:: _Scofield_.::

Michael comes back to himself with a start, claws at the handle of the door, stumbles out of the car.The night is black ahead of him but there’s bright fire at his back. 

:: _Linc!_ :: he calls, and not even a second passes before Lincoln sends back,

_::Here.::_

Relief, but there was something else.A car, and a voice.Demanding.Someone he knows—dreads.He turns, holding a hand up against the heat of their flaming car, and sees the other car, and sees Mahone.

The fire fades and the air lights up between them.Michael can feel the pull he spends every second of every day fighting.And Mahone is holding a gun, pointing it right at him.It’s sick, it’s wrong, and Michael can see he feels it too, can see conflict in Mahone’s face, can feel it in Mahone’s blood. 

The gun moves toward Lincoln, and Mahone’s sharp features clear, harden.

“Oh come _on_ ,” Michael says, murmurs, because he’s still trying to breathe.

“Get down.On your knees, _get on your knees!_ ” Mahone orders, motioning with the gun.He feels tired to Michael, and angry, and completely, terrifyingly unbalanced.Something horrifically wrong with him.And there _is_ a connection between them, and he knows he shouldn’t, but Michael can’t help but send…

He hardly has a chance to touch Mahone’s mind.

:: ** _On your knees_** _!_ ::

Lincoln winces at the strength of the open send, at the grim purpose in it.Michael reels under it. 

:: _Mahone…::_

:: _When I tell you to do something—::_

“Fuck off,” says Lincoln succinctly. 

For a moment, there’s nothing in the air but the crackle of the fire and Lincoln breathing somewhere next to him, and the feeling of something rising up and up like a tidal wave.It breaks.

_::_ **_TAL_ ** _.::_

Michael screams.

_::_ **_TAL.Your knees, NOW_ ** _.::_

He’s already dropped, holding his head, trying to escape the hold Tyrr has on him, the agony of having his own soul turned against him.Lincoln’s arms are around him and he’s sending, frantic, Michael can’t tell what—because Mahone is hitting Michael with rage and want and hate and mindless anguish and Michael doesn’t know which way is up anymore.

“Stop…” he tries.He can barely hear his own voice.

Somehow, he does hear the Border Patrol officers.Perhaps it’s the megaphone, or perhaps the patrolman is a strong sender.Either way, Mahone breaks off the barrage of emotion abruptly, and his voice seems to ring through the silence like a bell.Michael opens his eyes and gasps for air, and the lights, fire and emergency, are blurred through tears.

Mahone tells the patrolman he’s an FBI agent, and sets his gun down on the pavement between them. 

Michael digs his fingernails into his temples and tries to build walls up around himself which he knows now are worth no more than tissue paper.

 

 

Karma

 

Michael’s being dragged in two different directions, and he sits with his head in his hands, trying to sort variables.Instead he’s only able to think, again and again, that he’s pretty sure it’s not supposed to be like this.

Yes, he’s always been uncomfortable with Recognition, but he’d come to terms with the fact that it’s a positive thing, generallyThat he, specifically, simply hadn’t wanted to be beholden to someone, tied to them.

He’d be happy to be tied to Sara for the rest of eternity.Sara, whose heart he broke, whose life he ruined, all with the help of Recognition.He wants to chase her to the ends of the earth, and giving her space is a physical pain. 

And _now_ …things weren’t bad enough?Or perhaps this is karmic justice.A bond used against him, the way he’d used it against Sara.At least, he tells himself pathetically, he hadn’t _wanted_ to manipulate her, hadn’t enjoyed it.Had never…attacked her with it.

Lincoln would be able to help, but Michael won’t tell him.He can’t.It hurts too much, and he realises that’s an absurd excuse because it’s self-fulfilling, but.He’s afraid.Afraid of how Lincoln will look at him when Michael tells him he’s Recognised the man who shot their father.

He’ll have to tell him eventually.Or it will get so bad it’ll get them caught.Or Lincoln will just figure it out.

That’s coward’s way out, Michael thinks, as he chooses it.Oh well.

 

 

Now

 

“She’s a beauty,” the man says, and Michael answers, thinking he means the boat, and then there she is.

She looks up and sees him, and her face lights.She glows, like she did when they first met.She glows like the sun.The world glows around them.

_::Fehr!::_

_::Tal.::_

He runs, and she holds out her arms, and they hold each other and for the first time in a long time, he feels whole.Anchored.For the first time, Michael feels only _now._


End file.
